Prologue

It began as an ordinary day—until the world stood still.

The sun rose, the tides moved, and humanity carried on, blissfully unaware that history was about to split in two: before the Voice, and after.

In New York City, millions spilled into the streets, cabs honking in frustration, coffee cups steaming in tired hands. On the highways of Mumbai, rickshaws weaved through endless waves of traffic, the air thick with the scent of spice and gasoline. Deep in the Amazon, a jaguar watched from the shadows as a lone fisherman cast his net into the river. Monks walked the stone paths of Lhasa, murmuring ancient prayers beneath fluttering prayer flags. Scientists in Geneva calibrated particle accelerators, their minds fixed on equations that now meant nothing. Soldiers stood watch on distant borders, unaware that, in mere moments, wars would become meaningless.

It was 12:00 PM UTC.

And then it happened.

A voice rang out—not through speakers, radios, or airwaves, but directly into the minds of every living human being. It carried no accent, no inflection, no trace of origin. It was not male or female, not soft or harsh. It simply was.

"People of Earth. You have been chosen."

In an instant, the world stopped.

Traffic ground to a halt as drivers clutched their heads in shock. News anchors froze mid-broadcast, their words turning to silence. Parents reached for their children, their instincts screaming at them to protect, but from what, they did not know. Prisoners and presidents, farmers and billionaires, the devout and the faithless—all heard it. All understood it.

"Across the vast reaches of space, civilizations have risen and fallen. Many have thrived. Many have perished. The strongest among them have earned their place in the Great Council—a gathering of the most advanced and powerful worlds in existence."

In the White House Situation Room, advisors whispered frantically into dead earpieces. At the Kremlin, generals barked orders into silent radios. In Beijing, in Cairo, in Johannesburg, in Buenos Aires, leaders demanded answers, but there were none.

"Your time has come."

A ripple of dread swept the planet. Hearts pounded in chests. Some people dropped to their knees, others bolted for shelter, but there was nowhere to run.

"Each nation of Earth has been assigned a champion. Chosen by means beyond your understanding, these warriors will face each other until only one remains. This final champion shall represent your world in the Grand Tournament—a battle against the chosen of countless other worlds. The victor will claim a seat on the Galactic Council. They will speak for their people. They will shape the future of their planet."

The weight of those words crushed the breath from billions of lungs.

"The tournament begins in seven days."

And then—silence.

Not the silence of an empty room, but a vast, cosmic quiet, as if the universe itself had inhaled and was waiting to see what Earth would do next.

For a single moment, the entire planet stood in breathless suspension.

Then, everything exploded.

The Aftermath:

In the minutes following the Voice, the world plunged into chaos.

Some wept, believing it to be the voice of God. Others fled, convinced it was the beginning of an alien invasion. Stock markets crashed, planes remained grounded, and in cities across the globe, riots broke out. Some people celebrated, seeing it as humanity's first step into the cosmos. Others raged, unwilling to accept that a force beyond their comprehension had altered their fate.

The biggest question, the one that spread across every television screen, every news feed, every whispered conversation in hushed rooms, was the same:

Who were the chosen?

Names began to emerge, leaked by journalists, confirmed by government officials. Some made sense—Olympic champions, elite soldiers, grandmasters of combat. Others were a mystery. A librarian from Prague. A fisherman from Thailand. A teenage girl from Kenya. A death row inmate in Russia.

And Brooklyn rooftop, a boy named Orion Graves stared at the air in front of him as it shown to him a single message:

"You have been chosen to represent the United States of America. Prepare yourself."

The message burned in his mind.

Seven days.

Seven days before he would have to fight for his country. For his planet.

And somehow, out of three hundred million people, the universe had chosen him.